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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603620">Breathe You In</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads'>shealwaysreads (onereader)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bath Sharing, Bathing/Washing, Draco’s love language is gifts, Hamish the crup, Harry Potter Deserves Nice Things, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Intimacy, Italian pastries, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, soft and easy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:21:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,152</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603620</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days are lazy, soft, and easy. This is one of them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>445</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>HP Suds Fest 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Breathe You In</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mairegen/gifts">mairegen</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fest has been an absolute joy to set up and mod—with the brilliant and lovely Tacky, ever my partner in ‘oh god they’re <i>bathing together</i>' adoration—and I’m so pleased to have been able to write something for it, too!</p><p>Huge thanks to tacky, maesterchill and m0stlyvoid for cheering me on and keeping those semicolons in check, I adore you all!</p><p>Mairegen, I hope you enjoy this little slice of tenderness ❤️</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry shrugged his shoulders down under the surface of the water until it licked at his neck, watching with unfocused eyes as steam rose, slow and shimmering in the shafts of late-afternoon light that lanced into  his bathroom. The deep copper bath—easily big enough for him to submerge himself in, to stretch out and float in the womb-warmth of water—was almost the best part of his new home. </p><p>He had never had a bath before; he had been forced to make do with short, cold showers when he lived with the Dursleys (always rare, and always rushed), and although Hogwarts had been warm and generous, he’d still had to share both the dormitory and Quidditch showers with his classmates. Before he’d moved in here, the only proper long, hot bath Harry had had in his life had been in the Prefect’s Bathroom, and he’d shared that with a magical egg and Moaning Myrtle, of all people. So, when he had spotted the huge free-standing bath on his first showing of the house, he decided then and there to buy the place. He’d told Hermione it was because of the convenient location and the ‘good bones’, but really, it had been the bath. It was like something out of a magazine, traditional but sleek, and the copper reminded him of warmth and autumn. And it was worth it; the whole room glowed when the sun shone on the burnished metal, the copper heated up when he drew a bath, and it was charmed to stay warm for as long as he wanted to soak. </p><p>Harry was thinking, right at that moment, that since moving in, he might never have been cleaner in his life, or more relaxed. He barely even stirred when he heard footsteps in the hall downstairs; just dipped his chin under the surface and let the water settle in the crease of his lips as he listened to the murmur of a low, masculine voice, and the thud of Hamish’s tails on the living room rug. He knew Draco had planned to come over today, and he’d had Floo access to Harry’s place since… well, since about the third time they’d ended up sticky with sweat and come on Harry’s sofa after a pint too many at the Lock Tavern. </p><p>That had been at the end of spring—before both of their birthdays, before the leaves had unfurled green and lush through summer and then crisped and dropped into frost-hard grass as October arrived. They had crunched under Harry’s feet that morning as he wandered round the local park with Hamish. He’d let his excitable crup sniff at every tree while he watched his breath curl in the cold, daydreaming about Ron’s Sunday lunch—he did the best roasties, and had promised Harry at least half-a-dozen just for him tomorrow. He had also thought about seeing Draco. Harry was always thinking of him, these days.</p><p>He had left Hamish curled up in front of the banked fire in the living room, and ensconced himself in the bath to soak the frost out of his toes and his nose. While he floated he wondered what Draco would have tucked up his sleeve today. Draco always brought something interesting with him when he came over, as though he still felt he had to impress Harry. He didn’t. Harry was so far beyond needing any kind of lure to bask in Draco’s company that it was laughable, and he was pretty fucking distant from any hope of hiding that fact, or even wanting to try. It had been a long time since Harry had stopped pretending he didn’t like what he liked—being an Auror, men, well-tailored robes and expensive trainers—and he <em>really</em> liked Draco. </p><p>So, no, Draco didn’t need to impress him. But Harry was always excited about what trinket, or story, or morsel Draco would bring with him, so he never told him to stop. He swished his hand through the water, and it occurred to him that maybe Draco’s little offerings weren’t about impressing Harry. Maybe Draco had realised that Harry had never had <em>stuff, </em>or learned how to find the small pleasures in life—the discoveries he had made had always been grand, from learning he was a wizard, to learning he was to be a martyr—so Draco brought his prizes with him, trailing novelty and contentment in his wake, teaching Harry how to hunt for his own curiosities. </p><p>Sure enough, Harry could hear the rustle of paper along with Draco’s footsteps on the stairs; he had brought treats. </p><p>The footsteps paused on the landing, Harry’s bedroom door was to the left, the bathroom to the right. “Harry?”</p><p>“Bath.”</p><p>Draco’s face was wind-pinked and perfect, and the flash of his grin was beautiful as he slipped into the room and shook the pale green and white striped bag of <em>something</em> at Harry. That smile was one of the treasures Harry had uncovered himself; tentatively first, then recklessly, now tenderly and with all the enthusiasm of the passionate amateur. A dedicated, continuous search, just for the love of it. </p><p>Draco dropped a kiss on his lips as he passed him, and stroked Harry’s head. His fingertips lingered at the soft place behind Harry’s ears and the nape of his neck, while his palm cradled Harry’s crown. </p><p>Harry didn’t have his ‘birdsnest’ curls any more, hadn’t for a month now. Teddy had found out how Remus and Tonks had died from another kid at his primary school. They’d heard from their parents and spilled the beans with all the delicacy of a nine year old. His hair had fallen out that night; Andromeda had found it on his pillow when she woke him, clumps of blue curls on white cotton. But afterwards, Teddy couldn’t make it grow again, much to his distressed displeasure—the most he could manage was so short it was just a blush of turquoise on his little head. </p><p>Andromeda said it was about emotions, and processing, and that it would come back in time if they were just patient. So Harry had sat Teddy on the counter in her bathroom and let him help Harry shave his hair off till all that was left was a prickly velvet. He told Teddy about Aunt Petunia cutting his hair when he was in primary school, and how his accidental magic kept making it grow back. And he told Teddy how much he loved him, and that they could match, together, with their hair and their love, because they were family. Draco’s face when he had seen Harry’s new haircut that night had been half hilarious and half sobering; for a moment Harry had wondered if it would put Draco off—he was <em>very</em> fond of tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair. He <em>had</em> been genuinely shocked for half a minute, but he’d understood immediately, as soon as Harry had said, <em>Teddy</em>. Now this—these gentle, tender strokes over Harry’s closely-shorn head—was Draco’s newest habit.</p><p>“Thought I’d find you in here, Hamish looked windswept—nice walk?”</p><p>“Mmm, crunchy leaves. And I think Hamish fell in love today, with a great, big, properly groomed-up poodle.” Harry turned in the water and hooked his chin over the lip of the bath to watch as Draco set down his rustling paper bag on the side and began to undress. Slow and easy. “What did you bring?”</p><p>“<em>Sfogliatelle.</em>” Draco’s voice was muffled as he stripped off his soft-looking jumper, there was an ink-stain at the cuff; he must have been writing before he headed over. “Italian, crispy, and creamy, and delicious. Hamish is certainly an ambitious little thing.” </p><p>“He is. I rolled earlier, but didn’t want to start without you; it’s on the little table over there.” </p><p>Harry settled back against the curved embrace of the bath and watched as Draco picked up the joint, already clipped into a golden grip to stop it getting wet with Harry’s bathwater, and lit it with the neatest little <em>Incendio</em> Harry had seen anyone conjure. He took a deep pull, and held the smoke in as he slipped out of his underwear. </p><p>Naked, and wreathed in the heavy violet smoke drifting from the joint, Draco settled on his knees beside the bath and drew Harry forward with one pale finger hooked beneath his chin. He nudged his nose against Harry’s—it was still cold from his trip to the bakery—and then he tilted his head to bring their mouths together—just touching, barely, their lips clinging in an almost kiss. Harry opened his mouth, closed his eyes, and breathed in as Draco exhaled a soft and steady flow of smoke. He filled his lungs with Draco’s breath, with the gentled hit of sweet-sour relaxation. They parted, and Draco’s smile was as soft and heady as the steaming water still cradling Harry’s body.  </p><p>“Come in,” Harry said, and Draco obliged without preamble.</p><p>The bath was big enough for the two of them, even with Draco’s long legs and Harry’s broad shoulders. He liked the way they fitted in here, together, with Draco’s feet pressed against his belly, their legs like brackets. He could sit in the water and watch Draco’s hair curl in the steam, he could track the flush on pale skin as Draco heated up. It was even better on days like this, when they had all the time to smoke and laze, and he could simply luxuriate in the sight of Draco softening into this perfectly relaxed version of himself, and then savour the moment that honey-sweet lightness transformed into something heavier, something weighty and blood-warm as Harry’s gentle touches transformed that relaxation into perfect hardness.</p><p>He took a toke on the joint, and blew it into Draco’s lush, waiting mouth, kissed him deep as he held the smoke in his chest and then leaned back to take one of his pale, arched feet in his hands. Harry had never really noticed people’s feet before Draco. But the first time he’d had Draco in his house barefoot, he’d been strangely entranced by how vulnerable, how human and normal they were. And they were sensitive too—not ticklish—but Draco couldn’t hide the pleasure on his face when Harry touched them. So he touched them often, and it wasn’t a kink, but he loved it. Loved the way Draco’s eyes drifted closed as he ran a knuckle firmly across the arch of his instep, loved the sigh he let out as Harry pressed his thumb gently into the divot behind his ankle bone.</p><p>“Blaise and Neville have outdone themselves with this harvest,” Draco murmured as the potent smoke swirled around them, dancing in the sunlight, a miniature aurora borealis in vibrant blues and purples. </p><p>Harry just hummed in reply, running his hands up the inside of Draco’s thighs as he leaned forward till he sat close to Draco. He curled his legs under Draco and dragged him forward till he was practically in Harry’s lap.</p><p>“You’re like a bloody octopus or something,” Draco laughed, smoky and soft. “The great squid of Mornington Crescent.”</p><p>“Not a squid, not enough… appendages.” </p><p>Draco leered, and looked pointedly down between them where Harry’s fingers teased at the sensitive skin where Draco’s thigh met hip, and where their cocks rested against each other, hard but not impatient. “Quite the proper amount, I’d say.”</p><p>Again, Draco held out the spliff, and Harry took a drag, deep and soothing. Draco’s eyes were catlike as he watched, his pupils wide but his gaze narrow and appreciative. He set down the still-smoking roach on the side of the bath, and settled himself firmly into Harry’s arms, his own hands stroked up Harry’s shoulders, settling at Harry’s nape, fingertips toying with the soft stubble of his hair. </p><p>The kiss, once it began, was languorous and lingering. One kiss drifted into another, another, <em>another</em>. Around them, the water still steamed, and between them their cocks brushed against each other with each lazy hitch of their hips. </p><p>Harry pressed Draco closer, then wrapped one arm around his waist and dipped his fingers low, stroking between his cheeks with no aim other than the shiver of anticipatory pleasure that rippled along Draco’s muscles in response. Neither of them would rush this, they didn’t need to. This would last. Like their kisses, each crest and wave of arousal would carry them into the next. Sweet and easy.</p><p>“<em>Sfogliatelle</em>, Italian, yeah?” Harry asked, against Draco’s mouth.</p><p>He felt Draco’s smile. “Yeah, Italian. I think you’ll like them.”</p><p>Another kiss, and still the smoke and steam danced around them, the afternoon light sparked into life. And Harry just hummed in agreement, because Draco was right, he probably would. He liked almost everything Draco brought, and even when he didn’t like it, he liked that Draco had brought it. But they would eat them later. First, this.</p>
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